Rocket's Red Glare
by impossiblepluto
Summary: Set post season 3. Mac and Jack find the stress of the last year catching up with them as they ride out a neighborhood fireworks display.


The walls rattle. Jack can't hear the sounds of the explosions, thanks to Mac's noise-canceling headsets, but he can feel it in his chest. Pounding pressure, the force of the explosion. And the constricting squeeze of anxiety. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Adrenaline hits his bloodstream and he feels his survival response kick in. Run. Fight. Hide.

Protect Mac.

Such a clear directive. How did he ever lose sight of that? Of what was important. His mission. His purpose.

Mac's shoulders are rigid with tension. His mouth pressed into a firm thin line. As if he can feel Jack's worried gaze on him, he turns with a wry smile. "Must be those new neighbors, the ones with the teenagers," he says as he pulls off his headset. They aren't working anyway.

Jack nods. While Mac doesn't like to make a big deal about it, most of his neighbors are aware of his veteran status.

The first year they were home for the fourth of July was a disaster. Each explosive crack sent Mac reeling with memories of timers and firefights. He was on edge for days. After that Jack and Bozer subtly made sure the word got around the neighborhood. Since then, and until now, his neighbors have refrained from shooting off fireworks.

It isn't fair that a holiday that is supposed to be steeped with patriotism often sends the very people fighting for those freedoms spiraling into the darkest places of their minds. Jack included. It's gotten better, the longer they've been home. But the stresses of this past year are catching up with them tonight.

"Should have bought that house when I had the chance," Jack mutters.

"What would we do with two houses?"

"We'd have a lair. You could build a secret passage under the street and we'd have an escape route the next time someone tries some funny business in your house."

The windows shake and Jack's hands tighten into fists.

Mac picks up the remote and gestures towards the television. "Are you watching this?"

For the first time ever, Jack has to admit, watching Will Smith drag an alien corpse through the desert is not holding his attention. He's not even sure the dramatic "fighting for our right to live" speech from the While You Were Sleeping guy would be enough. He's too tense, wired. He forces himself to relax, sensing that Mac's own stress is feeding off of his.

Mac clicks off the television, as it goes dark, so does the rest of the house.

"You wire the whole place to that remote? Hey, wait," Jack shouts, squinting into the darkness. Mac has already crossed the room and is opening the front door to peer outside. "Let me at least make sure it's not a trap." Jack is hot on his partner's heels.

"Whole street's dark. Bet the kids hit a transformer," Mac steps further out onto the porch, into the darkness, ignoring Jack's instructions, and shrugging off his hand. "Yeah, it's still sparking over there."

Mac turns and grabs a flashlight from the table near the entryway, pushing past Jack again.

"Hey, Nancy Drew, let the power company come and deal with it."

"On a holiday? The power could be out for hours before they get around to it. Do you know how much beer and potato salad is in the fridge? Bozer will be pissed if it goes bad."

"You go out there poking around and they're gonna think you knocked the power out again."

"Nah, they'll know it wasn't me. Lacks my finesse," Mac switches on the flashlight as he heads for the driveway.

"You can tell it's not me," Jack mocks, following Mac. "My explosion would have taken out the power in all of Los Angeles."

It's dark, but Mac's lone pale finger reflects the moonlight.

Jack chuckles. Maybe this power outage is a blessing in disguise. The nightmares are closer to the surface this year, again, for both of them. It isn't just the hundred and eleven days that Jack was gone, chasing a ghost. A ghost, not The Ghost, Mac did that one on his own a few months prior. It's Murdoc and Helman's taunting return. It's the blast from the past reliving their first mission with DXS, memories now tainted with more blood and soaked with greater guilt. It sent them both reeling and spiraling through their last weeks in Afghanistan and the all the nightmares that accompanied their days in the Army.

But mostly it's the edge that they've been living on, too long without the other's company. The tension that they haven't been able to disperse. The fissure in their relationship that they're trying to ignore because they don't know to to fix it.

A project for Mac is better than any movie distraction. Jack prepares for a nice long-winded rant. He's been home for just over a month, and between recovering from a distinct lack of sleep from the mission, dealing with nightmares, his and Mac's, and an extended debrief, he hasn't had the chance to go into a full on rant while Mac tinkers since too long before he left.

It's not going to be his best harangue. His task force didn't fully appreciate a Jack Dalton's stream of consciousness monologue over the comms every time they had a raid. He'll need to stretch out those atrophied muscles, but it feels like the next logical step to healing for them.

Mac glances back at him to make sure he's following, and in the dim moonlight Jack can see the faint hint of a smile. Maybe things are starting to get back to normal.

A high pitched whistle breaks through his thoughts. In a moment of panic, he searches for a black leather trench coat, until he realizes it's only one shrieking note, not the opening bars of a taunting American folk song.

A spark of red glows in the otherwise pitch night. Growing brighter. Getting closer. The whistle increasing in pitch and decibels.

"Mac, get down!" Jack feels a surprised puff of air leave Mac as he tackles the younger man into the grass.

They tumble and roll into the sand.

Even with the sun long gone the sand is scorching against his skin.

Kicking up thick granules that find their way into his eyes. He blinks against the gritty burn. It's the least of his concerns right now.

One arm covers MacGyver's head while the other searches for his rifle. Damn, must have lost it in the confusion. He scrambles for his thigh holster. His side piece is missing too. They're way too exposed out here in the open, especially without his weapons.

He scans the horizon, looking for muzzle flash aimed in their direction, or the tell-tale spark of another explosive heading their way. At least the darkness is a cover for them too. Jack thinks they got down fast enough that their location is a secret for the moment.

Must only be one guy up in the hills. One guy with a rocket launcher is more than enough. Jack knew this mission would lead them right into a kill box. Told the brass what they could do with this mission. They told him MacGyver could do it with a different overwatch if he didn't watch his mouth.

He wasn't about to trust anyone else to watch the kid's skinny ass. The kid that's currently struggling underneath him.

"Shh, Carl's Junior," Jack's voice a hushed whisper. The struggles cease immediately. Maybe the kid is finally listening to him. That would be a first.

"Jack?"

It takes everything in him not to flinch in surprise at the use of his first name, the tentative tone in his charge's voice. The kid who walked into a trap and didn't even have the good sense to say thank you when Jack saved his life. Argues about every damn thing under the sun. The kid has never sounded this uncertain, not even when there are seconds left on an IED timer.

Two can play this game. "Yeah, Angus?"

"Do you know where we are?"

"Did you hit your head, kid?" He lost his helmet. Jack is going to give him a nice long chewing out on their drive back to base about keeping his chin straps secure, no matter how much the kid complains about them. Jack's hand moves from protecting MacGyver's skull to gently skimming his hands against the kid's scalp, searching for injury.

"Jack, you're having a flashback," MacGyver's voice steady and calm now. "We're home."

"Aw, kid." The bomb nerd is more gone than he thought. He can't blame the kid for dreaming that he's safe.

"No, Jack, feel the ground underneath us. Tell me what it is."

Jack frown but listens to the instruction, playing along to keep the kid quiet. He frowns harder when his hand meets grass rather than the expected sand. He breathes out a short panicked puff of air.

"It's a flashback. I know it feels real, but it's not. We're in California. We've been home over seven years."

"Why would I be in California?" Jack bites his lip. Even as he says it, he knows it sounds right. It sounds like home.

There's a flash of hurt in MacGyver's eyes, Jack doesn't like that he's the source of it.

"You- you stayed."

That sounds right too. The idea that he stays for MacGyver... for _Mac_. He can't leave him behind. He can't walk away.

He scans the area surrounding him. The sand and desert feel so real. The distant sound of gunfire echoes through the canyon. Except it's not a canyon, and it's not a desert.

"We made it home," Mac says. "You got us home safely. We're at my house, in California."

Jack can just make out a familiar house at the top of a small incline, and his Shelby is parked nearby. It looks real. He wants it to be real.

"That's it, buddy," Mac encourages. "Look around. Tell me what you see."

Jack scrubs his eyes. He shakes his head.

"Come on. You recognize this place."

"Your house," Jack lets out a strangled breath. He feels like he can't get enough air.

"Good," Mac praises. "You want to take a deep breath in with me?"

Jack follows Mac's lead, still sprawled half on top of his friend. The steady beat of Mac's heart, and the easy rise of Mac's chest grounding him in the moment. He feels his racing pulse start to slow, the panic from moments before slowly loosening it's grip with each puff of Mac's breath against his neck.

Mac's next breath catches.

"Guess I should get off of you now. You're more solid than you were back then, but I still feel like I'm going to crush you." Jack carefully rolls off his partner.

Mac gives a strangled cry. A sharp gasp of pain, and his legs curl towards his chest.

Jack feels his heart start to jackrabbit again.

"Mac? What's going on? Did I hurt you?" The dim glow from the forgotten flashlight lies within arm's reach. He snatches it up and points it towards his partner, then frowns. One side of Mac's shirt is shredded. Jack doesn't remember that from earlier, and it doesn't seem the type of fashion statement Mac would make.

He shines the light closer, his fingers reaching out to brush back the strips of the t-shirt. Mac's hands catch his and hang on.

"Let me see, bud," Jack encourages, gently moving Mac's hands aside. A large piece of plastic protrudes from Mac's lower ribs. A smoldering chunk of the explosive fusing to his skin. "Oh god, Mac, why didn't you say something?"

"I wouldn't have gotten you back if you'd seen this while flashingback," Mac says, the calm and softness of his voice from earlier dissipating in the haze of pain. His voice tight now. "You might have tried radioing for a chopper."

"Still might," Jack says, examining the wound, and the spattering of burns across Mac's skin. He feels his eyes prickle. Mac put Jack's mental anguish above his physical pain. The plastic is still hot when Jack touches it. "You're not bleeding."

"Yeah, I think the heat cauterized it," Mac ground out through the pain, teeth clenched.

"I gotta get you to a doctor."

Mac frowns. "Yeah, alright."

"I like that you're giving consent, as if you had a choice in this," Jack shakes his head, trying to tease. He will never admit it, but he's come to rely on Mac's 'I'm fine,' as a distraction, a way to reassure himself. It always terrifies him when Mac admits to needing medical attention. "You okay for a minute if I go pull the car up?"

"Do you think you should be driving? Are you up for it?"

"Kid, my head is clearer right now than it's been in months."

* * *

The power is back on when they finally make it back home, just before four in the morning. Mac's been thoroughly cleaned, debrided and stitched. He's exhausted. Hurting from burned skin. Aching from cracked ribs, and relieved to be home. While he'll always complain about the need for medical care, he's grateful for Phoenix Med where he's not just another fourth of July fireworks statistic in a busy emergency department.

After seeing the injury and hearing about the flashback the physician sent both Mac and Jack home with a mild dose of a benzodiazepine, just to take the edge off if needed. Strongly recommended that they use it. Neither man is planning to take it tonight.

Sleep's a lost cause now. A fire on the deck will do more good for both of them. Companionable quiet. No need to speak. Almost how it was before. The rest of the world has finally gone to sleep. There's only the crackle of the small flame.

"You know," Mac begins hesitantly. "I wasn't sure if you'd come back."

Jack releases a slow breath. "There were a couple of FUBAR raids where I wasn't sure either. Kovacs was a slippery bastard."

The pause is heavy. "Yeah, there were days I worried about that too. That's not what I-"

Jack can see Mac's brain turning as he tries to work out the words he wants to say. He needs to let Mac say his piece.

"I guess I took for granted all the times you were there; that you'd always be there. I forgot how much you gave up to stick around, in Afghanistan and then following me back here. I thought maybe when your mission was over...well, California isn't your home."

"It is now. Has been from the moment I followed you here. Will be, as long as it's yours too."

And just like that, the tension from the last several months evaporates. The promise made all those years ago stands as firm as if it were just said yesterday. You go kaboom, I go kaboom.


End file.
